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Terrifying Thoughts While Trapped on a Train for Three Hours

As I step from the platform, I will hit the button on a detonator and send this immobile metallic tomb into the heavens. I will turn and laugh maniacally as flaming chunks of the 651 Keystone to Harrisburg plummet to the Earth, shrieking like falcons with a death wish.

And with a sinister grimace I will flip the kill switch on my army of robots, and watch unflinchingly as they rip each Amtrak crewmember limb from limb. Their standoffish grins and inexplicably poor judgment will be all they find to throw in a casket for what will most definitely be a series o closed casket funerals.

“Why, daddy, why?!” the young daughters of train conductors will cry.

“Incompetence is a virus,” I’ll reply with a hand on her shoulder and on bended knee. ”The only way to stop a virus is to kill everyone. It is my sworn duty to be absolutely sure that all people like your father are burned off the face of the Earth. Like lice!”

Charred wreckage will decorate the train stops from Philly to Harrisburg, to serve as a warning for other trains and their crews who may be toying with just phoning it in today.

“This is what awaits you,” my voice will echo. ”This is the explosive death standing patiently at the end of the line for those who dare to delay a train.“

“And you will spend eternity lashed by cackling devils, in a circle of hell so vile with lacerating pain that even Satan will make excuses not to go in there.“

Every issue of ‘Arrive’ magazine will have my face on the cover with the headline “Sorry, Justin.” I will never pay $5 for a warm Sam Adams in the snack car or $18 to sit next to an-Arena football player who keeps sneezing into his hands.

The empty seat next to me will be camouflaged to only be visible to cute girls and the old man with story to tell about his grandkids’ adventures in prep school will be locked in the bathroom.

Train speeds will not dip below 150 mph.

Upon request, I get to drive the train with my feet.

My stop is always first, even if it makes no sense to do so.

The sound of the horn will be my voice saying “Remember, don’t slow down.”

Yes, my plan is almost complete. On this night, our train ride has been delayed twice for 90 minute intervals, and at one point, we were even moving backwards. As I sit here, scribbling madly into this notebook, stuck between suburbs with no explanation being fed through the intercom, it has become much more than the demented ramblings of a psychotic train passenger.